


Secrets of the Sea

by ProbablyBeatrice



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (I mean he'd object to being called a mermaid but), Angst, Artist Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras is very anti-Trawling, Fluff, M/M, Mermaid Enjolras, Merrow AU, Merrow have a political system now sorry I don't make the rules, Mutual Pining, Pining, Politics, mermaid au, someone just let my boys have a happy life please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProbablyBeatrice/pseuds/ProbablyBeatrice
Summary: The last thing that Grantaire expected to find on a routine fishing trip was a Merrow.The last thing that he expected to do with said Merrow was to attempt to work out a plan to take down the trawling corporation that employs him.{In other words, the Merrow AU that no one asked for}





	Secrets of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> serendipity  
> ˌsɛr(ə)nˈdɪpɪti  
> noun  
> noun: serendipity; plural noun: serendipities  
> the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the problem is that I don't have much motivation for my main fanfic at the moment, so I'm just writing a drabbly Merrow AU and waiting for inspiration to strike.  
> Thanks to @enjolrastbh on Tumblr for supporting this trashy AU and actually drawing amazing fanart of it!

   The fishermen at the bow of the ship were joking and laughing again, sharing sea shanties and beer as the trawler made its steady way towards where they would be fishing that day. The sun was just beginning to rise, its light skewed and dazzling on the sea as it reflected back towards the little boat. It was a good day to be fishing from a practical point of view and from a sailor’s point of view – the sky was pink, not red, so there was no need for the more superstitious members of the crew to proclaim that they were all going to die. From a more practical standpoint, the waves were strong enough to help the boat on its way, but not stormy enough to throw the ship about. Yes, it truly was a great day to be at sea.

   At the stern, however, one man sat alone, his gaze not on the other sailors as they joked about the mermaids that their parents had warned them about as children. His sharp eye was focused on the sea, pencils aptly illustrating the curve of the waves, the beams of light dancing on the surface of the water and the little fish swimming peacefully below, silver bellies shining in the sun. This was Grantaire’s world – the art of the sea, not the job that he was there to do. This fishing job was simply an easy way to take him to outreaches of the vast ocean further than the small fishing boat that had been in his family for years could. He rarely gave a thought to what he was doing outside of his art, or anyone else at all. At first, his colleagues had attempted to make small-talk with him to pass the time. Eventually, that stopped.

   Which was why he was surprised to hear a voice from behind him, clear as a bell.

   “Hello,” it began formally before Grantaire had fully gathered his bearings and turned around. “May I interest you in a pre-prepared speech on exactly why what you’re doing is completely wrong and horrific, and you’re a terrible person for even considering for working for such a corporation?”

   Grantaire rarely had trouble finding words, always ready with a quick retort – much to the exasperation of the sailors and the annoyance of his drinking buddies – but in this moment he was left completely astounded. His mouth open in shock, he immediately closed the book that he had been drawing in as his red pencil clattered to the deck of the boat. In front of him, leaning over the side of the boat with its fierce gaze fixed on him, was a mermaid. At first, he thought he was hallucinating, that the wine had finally got to his brain, but upon opening and closing his eyes the scene did not change. There was still very much a mermaid leaning over to talk to him.

   Though the first thing that struck him was the cerulean blue eyes, filled with the passion and fierceness of a stormy sea, the mermaid’s tail was what really held his gaze. It was a bright red colour with small flecks of gold and yellow, the same colour as the mermaid’s hair, both in the actual tail and in tiny scales on the mermaid’s body; ‘Kind of like freckles. Odd, iridescent, freckles,’ Grantaire found himself thinking, closely followed by: ‘This is happening, isn’t it.’

   “Y-you’re a mermaid?” he exclaimed in surprise as he fought between conflicting primal urges to run or investigate, forcing himself to maintain a calm demeanour as though this sort of thing happened to him every day.

   The stunning tail flicked, water splashing into Grantaire’s face and onto his art work – now more than ever, he was glad that he rarely worked in pen. “Merrow, actually,” he corrected. “It used to be simply ‘mermaid’ or ‘merman’, but we managed to get that changed for the sake of those who don’t identify as one of the more traditional genders.” He paused to sigh, clearly recalling some previous protest that he had been part of. “It took a while to get some of the older members of the council to accept it – I never thought that my own father would be denying Merrow their basic rights.”

   If Grantaire had been shell-shocked before, this pushed him over the edge to completely clueless and confused. ‘Mermaids have gender politics?’ was the single thought rushing around his head. In the tales that he had heard of mermaids, they were always very aloof and above everything that humans did. To hear that they argued about politics – that they clearly had some sort of parliament and legal system – was almost like being told that gods drank their lives away. It was so mundane and so utterly normal, far from what he had believed as a child.

   “Anyway,” the Merrow continued pointedly, clearly annoyed at having strayed from the topic at hand, “that’s not the reason that I’m here to talk to you. Listen, I’m sure that you’re aware that you work for a trawling company. Do you have any idea what that does to the aquatic environment below you? Of course, it’s all well and good in the short term – you get more fish – but in the long term habitats are destroyed, meaning that there will be fewer fish in the future. In addition to this-” the Merrow broke off, looking Grantaire directly in the eye with a steely gaze that the artist was sure would have quelled even the stormiest seas. “You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

   Grantaire shrugged, picking up his book and pencil, beginning to sketch the Merrow in front of him. “I just don’t see how you can take down an entire corporation on your own,” he replied nonchalantly.

   The tail flick was back again – Grantaire assumed that it must be something that the Merrow did when he was annoyed. “I’m not going to do it on my own,” he retorted testily, teeth gritted as though he could barely stand talking to the fisherman – though, Grantaire thought, who could blame him? “I’ve got friends who can help me! And people are standing up and taking notice!”

   “Ah, I see,” Grantaire nodded mockingly, pausing for a second. “And which humans would be taking notice of the plight of fish?”

   Yet more saltwater was splashed his way, targeting his face with deadly accuracy. Perhaps, he decided, annoying a Merrow was not the best idea in the world. “It affects humans too,” the Merrow pointed out sharply, and Grantaire had to admit that he had a point. “If you use up all of your resources now and destroy your means to get them in the future, what will you do? Your economy will collapse, even more people will starve, and you will lose your job.”

   Once again, Grantaire’s mind was forced to comprehend the fact that this Merrow knew more about the state of economic and political affairs than he did. The thought wasn’t consoling in any way whatsoever; it made him feel insignificant and small, though he knew that he had no reason at all to know about things like that in his line of work.

   “Okay,” was the only word that he could manage, still not entirely sure that he wasn’t drunk or high. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think for a wistful second, this was just some insane dream and he was going to wake up with a hangover on Eponine’s sofa. He closed his eyes tightly.

   “Human? What are you doing?”

   This was definitely happening.

   “My name is Grantaire,” he corrected the Merrow, disliking being referred to as ‘human’. It felt impersonal, dispassionate and, frankly, rude. He slyly picked up his pencil and paper, wanting to capture this moment and this… this thing before he got home and wondered how much he must have drunk to see such fantastical things.

   “My name is Enjolras,” the Merrow introduced himself, mimicking Grantaire’s speech pattern so exactly that it made him laugh, earning himself a reproachful glare. “What?” Enjolras demanded fiercely as Grantaire began a rough sketch.

   “Nothing,” Grantaire looked away with a smile playing at his mouth. “It’s just… I get the feeling that you haven’t introduced yourself to many humans.”

   Enjolras crossed his arms defensively, brow furrowed as he seemed to be trying to work out what he might have said wrong. “I haven’t met many humans as persistently inquisitive as you,” he countered fiercely. Grantaire almost felt ashamed, but then decided that being nosy is a talent few can master to its extreme and stoped.

   After a few seconds passed between the pair in comfortable silence, a yell came from the bow of the boat signalling that the crew would be returning home post-haste. Grantaire glanced down at his watch, surprised to see how long they had been out at sea. Enjolras cast a furtive look towards the bow of the ship and made as if to dart away, but found his wrist held tightly.

   “Can we, uh, talk again?” Grantaire asked of him. He was shocked at himself for so much as touching a Merrow, this divine creature of the sea, but also surprised at how human Enjolras seemed. He had expected his skin to be cold and clammy, like the fish that Grantaire and his fellow crew members caught, but instead found it to be warm and clean, though hardened by several scars.

   Enjolras looked up at him, clearly amused. “What, so that you can draw me again?” he asked. Immediately, Grantaire felt dishonourable for doing such a thing. His guilt, however, was dismissed by Enjolras’ next blunt statement. “Of course, if you will actually listen to what I have to say. We shall meet tomorrow by the cove in the bay, and you can bring your boat if you want us to go further out. Nine o’clock tomorrow.”

   With that, he was gone, having disappeared below the surface of the sea.


End file.
